


With a Red Bow

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, New Year's Eve, Post-Divorce, References to Depression, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Greg doesn’t mind working on Christmas. It’s fine. Really. What else is there to do?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 14
Kudos: 130
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2020





	With a Red Bow

Greg Lestrade hit CTRL-P and made his way down the dimly-lit hallway, only to find the printer was off. Turning it back on, he sighed and waited for it to warm up. Of course it had been off. No one would be coming into NSY on Christmas. No one except for him, of course.

Really, what else was there to do? The kids were with his ex-wife; it was her year. He got odd and she got even. Hmm. It had taken him a full year to have noticed the humor hidden within that arrangement. Well, in any case, they were managing joint custody well. Amicably, even. He'd already gotten his video chat from the kids just after dinner, which cheered him up for a good hour or so, but then came that emptiness. Maybe he should get a dog. Someone to come home to, who’d greet him at the door, jump around a little, maybe? Who was he kidding? He worked far too much to have a dog, and he’d end up with yet another creature to complain he wasn’t home enough. Possibly by destroying the furniture. 

The upside of being alone should be increased productivity, though he could hardly say he had been productive at all lately. Quite the opposite. Which was why he was here, on Christmas Day— well, more like Christmas night— getting paperwork done. Even the detectives who didn’t celebrate the holiday took advantage of the day off. Hell, even the London criminals seemed to be taking some time off from… criminaling… to spend time with their... crime families. Probably gifting each other lockpicks. And when did he get this cynical? Or this unobservant of the world around him. Of course the printer would be off.

He wandered toward the kitchen area to make some coffee instead of standing in front of the machine, waiting. Doing something always helped. Doing anything, really And that was surely his problem lately. He wasn’t doing anything lately and he was sinking into something that was beginning to feel an awful lot like depression. It was just the time of year, watching so much family togetherness. He needed to do more things that were ...fun. 

Well, work was fun. It truly was. A good mystery to sink your teeth into. But then came the paperwork, the court prep, the procedural requirements. He dumped a few scoops into the coffeemaker, filled the reservoir, then flicked the switch. Printer was probably warmed up by now.

The printer was indeed ready and had left him three perfect copies, still warm to the touch in his cold hands. Maybe he should turn the heat up. Or the lights on. But why bother. It was just him. He took them back to his desk and neatly filed the papers away, then realised there was one more set of fingerprints he needed to compile. 

CTRL-P. Printer room.

This time the printer had produced two of the three pages required and presented him with a blinking amber light. Festive.

He sighed and pulled the machine away from the wall to clear the paper jam. There was no paper to be seen, which meant he’d have to flip back various levers and get into the mechanics of it, and, to be honest, he quite enjoyed doing that. It was something akin to detective work in a physical form. Methodically moving things aside and finding the root of the problem. 

He extracted the paper, smoothed it out, and surveyed how badly the sheet managed to have been mangled within the cogs of the machine: letters distorted, ink smeared. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to closely examine the disaster that was the stuck page. At least it was something he always did when this sort of thing happened, and was therefore absolutely not symbolic of his misprinted life, or something. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the room, and he smiled.

Pouring a cup into his mug with donuts all over it, a gag gift from the office party last week, he made an audible “ah!” noise. And why not? Coffee was one of life’s simple pleasures and he and his coffee were going to have a lovely evening together. 

He reprinted the page. It was one of the cases he had handed over to Sherlock, who had done his thing, picking up on a detail in the way the victim’s shoes were tied, and then everything seemed to come together like magic. But Sherlock had waltzed into the case and waltzed back out again, never having to do the more unpleasant aspects of the job. You know. The not-so-sexy stuff that ensured the criminals actually stayed off the streets.

Yeah, the not-so-sexy stuff was his division now, it seemed. And not just at work. How had that happened, exactly? His low-key flirting and quiet confidence had always served him rather well when he wasn’t really serious about it. But this past year… Well, he’d picked the wrong horse and there were bound to be a few lingering effects. If he had decided to go hang out with Allen and had skipped the whole 6th form dance everything would have changed. But he wouldn’t have Bekkah and Sam. And most of the years with Beth had been good ones. Maybe it was just too late to start over. 

He wasn’t out to look like he was on the prowl. Not about to grab a bottle of hair dye and update his wardrobe, or hit the gym any more than he had always done (which was pretty close to never, since he didn’t have the time). But he could still occasionally turn a few heads. Time to get back in the game, Greg. See what's out there. Maybe find someone as dedicated to their job as you are to yours, so they wouldn’t feel threatened by a Christmas away from… Yeah, right. As if you would ever be spending Christmas away from whatever special someone might find their way into your life if they existed. He’d be there watching stupid Christmas movies right along with them, snuggled in the sofa. Just to be together. All the stuff he couldn’t stomach alone. 

Course he had an important court date right smack dab between Christmas and the new year and nothing better to do with his time, and there was no way he was going to be anything less than thoroughly prepared. He would have had everything done days ago if it wasn’t for the fact that Sherlock Holmes was dragging his feet on giving him a formal statement. He had even given him the option of writing up a signed affidavit. Sherlock had promised him it would be there by Christmas. But here he was, and here the documents weren’t. Though he had half expected to have found them sitting on his desk with a red bow on top. 

He heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. 

“Well, well, well, Mr Holmes,” Greg sang out, “have you finally decided to hand over that paperwork?” He glanced at his watch. “With...twenty seven minutes to spare.”

The jingle of the keys stopped for a moment, and Greg had a flash of panic. What if it wasn’t Sherlock behind the door? Had to be. Had to be.

The door opened and Greg tried to look as non-chalant as possible.

“Yes,” came the reply, “but probably not the one you were expecting.” Mycroft Holmes entered his office. “The lights were dim, but someone had recently made coffee. I will admit I didn’t expect to find you here, but Sherlock insisted you would be prepping for the Adams case.” Mycroft frowned and shook his head, looking a bit exasperated. As if he had been wrong one too many times today. 

“What on Earth are you… Oh.”

“I… Sherlock insisted you needed this tonight.” He held out a manila envelope. It had a red bow stuck on it.

Greg looked at it and laughed. “And you just happened to be passing by Scotland Yard on your way home from Christmas dinner with the family?”

Mycroft pressed his eyes shut.

“You lost a bet, didnt you.”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Tell me more. I could use some entertainment.” Greg gestured toward a chair as he put his feet up on his desk. Mycroft placed the envelope just to the left of Greg’s shoes and the right of the coffee cup and took a seat.

“It’s… a longstanding family tradition. Like so many of them, it started accidentally, in childhood, and was perpetuated solely for Mummy’s benefit. Sherlock and I get each other gifts, and we attempt to determine what they are before unwrapping them. I have won this competition every year, mind you, ever since he was four and I was eleven. I let him win that year on purpose, but it is generally agreed upon that I had done so.” He shifted in his seat and lay his umbrella beside him. “My gifts tend toward the esoteric. Sherlock has a fair number of antiquities if you ever find his flat in such a state that they aren’t buried in detritus. Sherlock’s gifts tend toward... the obscene.” 

Greg laughed. He could only imagine Sherlock grinning widely, gifting his older brother some explicitly packaged sex toy, only to have him say “Thank you for the anal beads, Sherlock,” and place it gingerly to the side of the tree. That Mycroft chose to play along once his brother resorted to such tactics only showed how truly competitive they were.

“Yes. We are that competitive.” Mycroft had no trouble reading his mind. “And usually there is a substantial bet involved. Mummy doesn’t know about that part of the game, mostly because that bet often involves going to see a musical review with her.”

Greg nodded. And this year the loser got to visit him. He tried not to take it as an insult. Mycroft seemed to read something from his expression and flushed a bit. There was no need for Mycroft to be embarrassed. After all, going anywhere but straight to bed right after a large meal and a long day of socializing with the family was hardly a good time. Mycroft cleared his throat and continued.

“This year, I couldn’t place it. It was far too light and thin for his usual fare. It turned out there was a very good reason for my failure this year. And, he might have been especially determined.”

“Let me guess. John picked it out.”

“Oh no. He had tried that particular wrinkle last year. And it nearly worked, until John expressed an unusual amount of interest in my examination of the package. I assumed it was chosen by him and announced it was a tie. I was correct.”

“And this time you lost.”

He paused a moment and looked at Greg carefully before answering. “Yes. And therefore the requirement that I deliver this to you tonight. Using Sherlock’s keys. Which are your spare set, I believe.” He placed them on the desk next to the envelope. “I also bear the evidence of my shame.” Mycroft opened his jacket and showed Greg his tie. “Yes. Another tie. But this one has been decorated, as you can see, with myriad permanent marker scribbles in a variety of colors, with a few distinctive loops. I am told those are people.” It looked like a child’s scribble, and Greg could only assume that, in fact, was what it was. “It’s...me. Well, supposedly. It could be anybody. Or anything, for that matter. But John claims it’s Rosie’s rendition of me.” He smiled and refastened his jacket. “Did you know we have artists in the family line? We may yet again.”

Greg nodded. “You mentioned it back at the pub that time.”

Mycroft nodded in return, and seemed to have been expecting the response. “Yes, well.”

They had met several times before, to discuss the conditions of Sherlock’s informal position with the police. Mycroft had suggested regular searches of his home as a condition of employment. Greg would have been appalled at all the spying if it wasn't for the fact that he knew how bad things could get, and how quickly. Then later, Mycroft insisted Greg check on Sherlock at Baskerville. His reputation as a caring, yet overprotective older brother was assured, but Greg thought little else of him. 

It was when Sherlock has been in hospital, after the situation with Culverton Smith had finally concluded, that Mycroft was exhausted enough to have let his guard down. They met at a pub a half a block from the hospital. Neither had expected to find the other there, but it was clear both of them were there to worry and wait. It had been a good conversation, and not just about Sherlock either. About a lot of things. His injuries were... complex. 

In the awkward silence that followed, the pub owner switched the channel on the large screen tv to a match. At first, Greg thought it was feigned interest, but he soon discovered Mycroft was far more devoted to football than Greg had ever expected. 

Greg reached into his pocket to double check his mobile and Mycroft just shook his head. “They are still running tests on his kidney and liver function. But that we have heard nothing yet is likely good news. Mine is set to vibrate, and my right hand has not left my pocket since I came in.”

“Care for a pint?” Greg asked.

“Might as well,” Mycroft replied.

A man who had had a few pints too many had decided to grace the pub with a turn on the piano which sat in the corner. Mycroft winced in anticipation, bracing himself quite literally (his fingers were digging into the edge of the table) for the worst, but Greg placed his hand over Mycroft’s and told him the way the man had seated himself, drunk or no, indicated he knew a thing or two about the piano. Sure enough, the man gave his hands a theatrical shake and grinned at his audience and Greg just barely had enough time to comment on his expert hand position before he broke into an elaborate series of swirling arpeggios. Mycroft turned away from the unexpected musician to look at Greg. “You play?”

“Piano? It was my first love.”

“And now there are others.”

“Several instruments, yeah.”

“How many?”

Greg shrugged. “Never counted. Umm. Dozen or so? More if you give me some time with em.”

“Mummy tried her best, but I was indifferent,” he replied.

“Brothers. One of them claims a thing, the other runs away from it, yeah?”

Mycrift thought for a moment. “I suppose so,” he finally replied.

Greg took a sip of beer. Then another. “What was your thing, Mycroft?”

Mycroft took far more than a sip. “Theatre. It was an opportunity to break free from expectations. Comedy roles were the best.”

And that’s when Greg began to see Mycroft in a different light. Getting to separate the public man from the private one suddenly seemed an interesting prospect. One he wanted to be part of.

They talked about music, art, performing for others, losing yourself on stage, finding yourself on stage. It was an open, honest conversation that could only come from two mentally and physically exhausted men. Then Mycroft jumped and Greg’s mobile went off immediately after. All the vulnerability vanished as Mycroft guzzled down the water which he had been faithfully alternating with his beer, smoothed his suit jacket and retrieved his umbrella which had been leaning against the barstool. He tossed some money on the table, gave Greg a cursory glance and headed out without a word. 

Greg wasn’t sure what he had expected. 

He followed suit.

Now Mycroft was sitting in his office while this Christmas faded away into oblivion. 

“Well,” he said again, and gestured toward the package. “I should be going.”

“Yes, package received. Sherlock has kept his promise.” Once more, Greg wasn’t sure what he had expected.

“But. I haven’t kept mine.”

Greg took his feet off the desk, nearly knocking over the coffee in his haste. “Sorry? Was there something else?” 

“It was...optional.”

“I see. Not part of your bet, then.”

“No. I made it to myself. Some time ago, in fact. Detective Inspector Lestrade—”

“Greg. Just Greg.”

“Greg. You once mentioned that often one brother will abandon something because it is viewed as the domain of the other. I found that raher perceptive. Might I enquire—do you have siblings?”

“No. I suppose I just saw how my ex wife was with hers. And my kids too, with each other.”

“I see.” He swallowed. “It appears I have been wrong several times tonight.”

Greg furrowed his brow.

“I, of course, argued that the tie was from Rosie, not Sherlock himself, and rather than debate the point, he handed me an envelope. I knew it was a ticket for an event, and as I would already have had a longstanding subscription for any theatrical production I might have wished to see, I deduced it was for the symphony.” Mycroft paused and worried his lip. “Then he smiled and said I hadn’t technically lost, since there was a symphony ticket there. In fact...” he looked down at his shoes for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Greg’s, “In fact there were two of them.” He cleared his throat. “I have two tickets to the symphony. For New Year’s Eve. And perhaps it is my destiny to be wrong one final time. One can hope.” He let a smile emerge, ever so slowly. “Greg. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Mycroft, I would love to.”


End file.
